


Under the Black Moon

by Yavannie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Oblivious Jughead Jones, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Summer Fic, Supernatural Elements, Teen Romance, Urban Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15098957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yavannie/pseuds/Yavannie
Summary: “Shit!” he says, splashing the surface of the water angrily. “Shit, shit,shit!” His voice is breaking with tears and he gasps for air, still turning this way and that, even though he knows it’s no use.And then the current snatches a hold of his legs, dragging him down.---When Betty suddenly disappears during a night swim in Sweetwater River, Jughead's rushes to save her from drowning but ends up being saved himself - a fluffy Bughead canon-ish AU summer fic with a twist!





	Under the Black Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to [Raptorlily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raptorlily/pseuds/Raptorlily), my amazing cheerleader who has endured my fretting and moaning and given me encouragement and pointers from start to finish. I'm sorry I made you read this in, like, 8 small chunks. Thank you also dollihaze/itllbeyou for releasing this fluffy plot bunny on my dash!

The scent of Betty’s hair is painfully distracting. Jughead knows it’s a tired trope, a cliché so common that the mere thought of it makes him want to roll his eyes, but it’s still true. When a breeze from the open window stirs those summer-bright locks, loose around her shoulders for once, he catches a hint of some tangy fruit, and the way it mingles with the scent of her warm skin is enough to make him squirm on the sofa.

He risks a glance her way, knowing her eyes are trained on the TV. She’s wearing a red, strappy top, loose enough for him to glimpse the grey sports bra underneath, and her bare shoulder is inches away from his arm. Her skin is golden brown and freckled and Jughead simply _knows_ that kissing it would taste like salt and sunshine.

“So long, sucker,” says Betty then, punching away at her controller frantically.

Jughead snaps his attention back to the screen just in time to see his car being pushed off the edge of the track by Betty’s yellow buggy, his Bowser team tumbling into the abyss.

“Shit,” he mutters, hammering the A-button as he waits for his half of the screen to light up again.

“You’re so screwed,” Betty scoffs, bumping her shoulder into his.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he says between gritted teeth, bumping her back. He’s gone from first place to sixth, they’re on the last lap, and realistically, there’s no way of catching up with her now.

“Excuses, excuses,” she says in a sing-song voice, and seconds later she’s speeding across the finish line just as Jughead manages to scrape his way into fourth place.

“I mean, I have to let you win once in a blue moon to keep you happy,” Jughead grumbles.

“Once in a new moon, you mean,” says Betty with a sigh, putting the controller on the table.

“Hm?”

“Oh, nothing, just…” She shrugs and fiddles with the frayed edge of her jean shorts, looking distant all of a sudden.

Jughead gets the feeling she’s about to suggest they call it a night, so he quickly tries to think of something to keep her around a while longer. “Soda?” he suggests.

Betty glances at her watch, then out the window before turning to Jughead with a smile. “Sure.”

In the kitchen, he rummages around in the cupboards for snacks, but FP seems to have cleared out all the good ones in record time again. Against all odds he finds an old packet of Cheez-Its behind an empty box of Cornflakes, and while he arranges the crackers on a plate he thinks about his next step.

Honestly, Jughead can hardly believe his luck, and it probably wouldn’t be wise to push it. By some miracle, this is not the first evening he and Betty have spent curled up on the sagging sofa, playing Mario Kart. In fact it’s _far_ from the first time they’ve hung out this summer.

Two days ago, he’d helped her paint the fence between the Cooper and Andrews yards. The money Alice Cooper had given them for food had been enough not just for burgers, but for a couple of extra milkshakes that somehow lasted until the neon sign outside Pop’s flickered to life. The day before that, Betty had swung by the trailer just as he was taking Hot Dog for a walk. Cheerfully, she had joined him, and they’d spent literally _hours_ wandering aimlessly around Fox Forest, just talking. Before that, there’d been Netflix-binging on rainy days and long evenings trying to beat the highscore on Resident Evil down at the arcade. There’d been nights at the Bijou and - against his better judgement - even a day trip to the beach.

He would in no way be exaggerating if he said they’d spent on average three days a week together since the start of the summer break, and Jughead is still half-expecting to wake up in September only to find that it was all one long dream.

That rude awakening is bound to come sooner or later though, not least as their junior year is approaching rapidly. It’s already mid-August, and while Archie is seemingly intent on keeping his promises to Veronica while she’s away in France, there’s numerous other contenders at school, probably already mentally lined up and waiting to date a sunkissed Betty Cooper.

That is, if _he_ doesn’t make a move first and…

Jughead yanks the fridge open, willing himself not to finish that thought. At least his dad hasn’t been at the sodas yet - not when there’s still beer around. Even better; not only are there two bottles of ginger ale left, but the bunch of grapes that Sweet Pea brought over from the bodega earlier is still untouched. Undeniable proof that FP isn’t big on fruit and veg, he thinks bitterly as he rinses the grapes under the tap.

He digs out two clean glasses and piles them on a tray along with the rest to carry it through to the living room. Betty is looking wistfully out the window, but her face lights up when she turns to him.

“Wow, what’s the occasion?” she jokes as he puts the tray on the table.

_You. You’re the occasion._

“You know me, I like to snack in style,” Jughead says dryly.

“Champa _gne_ ,” says Betty in a mocking French accent, wagging her eyebrows at him as she pours herself some soda. “Cheese, probably very exclusive…” She pops a Cheez-It in her mouth. “Mm, and grapes, fresh off the vine,” she mumbles around the cracker.

“Seedless, organic, you name it,” he says.

“ _Nice_ ,” she says, picking one off the cluster. She holds it up, aimed at Jughead. “Ready?”

Betty tosses it his way, and he catches it easily in his mouth.

“Again,” he says while he chews, scooting back a little to make it harder.

This time the grape bounces off his cheek and onto the table. They both reach for it, and for a fraction of a second their hands brush together. The touch makes Jughead freeze, a nervous rush tingling along his arm and down his spine. Then Betty picks the grape up and places it gently between her lips. She holds his gaze and sucks it into her mouth with a soft pop that makes his limbs feel like jelly. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting with him.

Does he know better though? Betty’s been the one making plans, the one texting him stupid memes in the middle of the night. She's been the one dropping by unexpectedly - much more so than him. But… That’s the kind of things friends do, isn’t it?

_Isn’t it?_

She chews slowly, her eyes still on his.

“Betty,” he says, his voice cracking a little. His throat seems to have gone dry somehow, so he quickly takes a swig of ginger ale.

“Yeah?”

Jughead hesitates. He wishes he hadn’t moved backwards earlier. Now he’s too far away to strategically place a hand near her, and way too far away to try anything else, to test the waters by leaning in a little. If he edges closer now his intentions will be crystal clear, and there’ll be no going back and pretending like he didn’t–

“I should go, actually,” she says suddenly, glancing out the window at the darkening sky. “Mom’s going to be a pain in the ass if I’m late again.”

“Oh, uh…” He stands up, resisting the urge to wipe his damp palms on his jeans.

Betty gets up too, gathering her bag up and hiking it over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she mumbles with an apologetic smile.

He follows her to the door, unsure of whether she wants him to or not, but it would feel impolite not to. She flashes him another smile, then hurries down the steps to the trailer, and just like that she’s gone.

Once he’s closed the door, Jughead allows himself a whispered _‘fuck’_ as he reaches up to take off his beanie and run his fingers through his hair in frustration. Then he walks over to the bedroom window to watch her go. Not that he’s a creep or anything, it’s just that he doesn’t trust Remy Two-Times three trailers down the road, and he likes making sure that–

He frowns. Betty’s not there. Quickly, he walks back to the door, opens it and peers out, but there’s no trace of her. Then he hears the faint sound of a branch snapping in the woods behind the trailer.

“Betty?” he calls.

There’s no reply, no more noises, and there’s an uneasiness growing in his stomach now. He slips outside, shutting the door softly behind him, then makes his way down the footpath into the woods.

Years spent avoiding Reggie Mantle and his crew have made him adept at moving quickly and quietly, and he steals through the dusking forest like a shadow. Before too long he catches up with her. It’s Betty alright, walking determinedly in the opposite direction of Riverdale, away from and not back to her home. There’s something decidedly strange going on here, he thinks. That something that keeps him from calling out her name again, keeps him following at a safe distance.

It soon becomes evident that she’s headed to Sweetwater River. There’s nothing else down here except thick brambles, rusty old shopping carts and the occasional squirrel. Sure enough, she makes straight for the riverbank when it becomes visible through the branches. Jughead lingers there, at the edge of the trees, feeling slightly uncomfortable about the whole thing. He’s followed her this far without making himself known, and by now he _is_ being a bit creepy.

Betty throws her bag down on the pebbles, glances around, and then pulls her top off. Jughead draws a sharp breath and whips around, hands trembling. He didn’t see anything, he tells himself. Okay, he _barely_ saw anything. He didn’t _mean_ to see anything, and she’s far away, and… And he should definitely just walk back the way he came and never mention this to anyone.

There’s a soft splash of water coming from behind him, and Jughead draws a shaky breath, trying very hard to stop imagining what she must look like, calf-deep in the river. Then there’s the distinctive sound of someone diving into the water, and he forces himself to take one, two, three steps forward. Then he stops, the uneasiness in his belly rapidly growing again. It's too quiet. Apart from the whisper of the stream there are no sounds at all coming from the river, least of all the sound of someone swimming. The silence goes on for several seconds until he spins around and runs towards the water.

“Betty!” he shouts, scanning the dark surface of the river.

The Sweetwater runs swift and deep here and there’s no signs of Betty anywhere, so Jughead kicks off his shoes and wades out until the current is tugging at his thighs.

“Betty!” he calls out again, uselessly, striding deeper still.

The water is cold and dark, but he sinks into it without hesitation, drawing a quick breath and letting himself drop under. He opens his eyes, and it’s like looking into a murky old aquarium that hasn’t been cleaned for years - dark green and gloomy, his vision obscured by the muck he’s stirred up from the riverbed. There’s nothing down there, nothing but rock and mud. He kicks himself back up and emerges a few feet further out than he went in. His feet are barely touching the bottom now, and the current is threatening to sweep him along, but his only concern right now is Betty. If she went under, she would have been carried by the stream…

He makes a split second decision and starts swimming.

But the Sweetwater is treacherous and fickle with a life of its own, and Jughead is not a strong swimmer. His jeans are heavy, weighing his legs down to where the undercurrents are lurking, threatening to pull him under. After struggling along for barely a minute, diving down as often as he can manage to stare into the dark depths, he’s already tired. He’s drifted pretty far by now; looking back over his shoulder he can no longer see Betty’s bag on the shore, and there’s still no sign of her in the river.

“Shit!” he says, splashing the surface of the water angrily. “Shit, shit, _shit_!” His voice is breaking with tears and he gasps for air, still turning this way and that, even though he knows it’s no use.

And then the current snatches a hold of his legs, dragging him down. Like an idiot, he tries to take a breath just as he’s sucked under, instead managing to flood his mouth with water. He swims frantically, fighting his way back up, and for a brief second he’s gulping in air before he’s pulled towards the bottom again.

His arms feel so weak, and it’s surprisingly easy to stop struggling. Maybe if he rests for a minute, letting the current carry him, he’ll be able to swim up where the river is calmer. It’s a comforting thought, but his lungs are soon aching for air. He makes one last effort to swim to the surface, and for a moment it almost seems like it’s going to work, and then his jeans snag on something. He kicks this way and that, tries to shake himself loose, but he only seems to be making it worse.

 _Typical._ Even though it’s completely irrational, he coughs a laugh, finally letting the air out of his straining chest. He wonders what the papers will write about them. Two friends, going for a night swim that ended in tragedy? Secret lovers, perhaps. With his luck, they’ll probably frame it as some kind of crime. The thought of Betty dying is surreal. He won’t believe it. He _won’t_. Maybe she made it to the other shore. Maybe…

He doesn’t finish the thought. The world seems to be going darker, and his thoughts are slowing down along with his heartbeat. He longs to take a breath, even if it means filling his lungs with water.

And then Betty is there. Impossibly, she’s there, right in front of his face. He doesn’t have the time to question his senses before she’s wrapping her arms around him, trying to pull him up. But his leg is still stuck, and although she feels remarkably strong, she can’t move him. She grabs his shoulders, her face blurry and strange-looking in the murky waters. The dim light from the surface reflects off her cheeks in eerie patterns, making her skin seem almost scaly when she moves closer and puts her mouth on his.

He can think of worse ways to go, he muses, willingly parting his lips to kiss her back. In some small still-functioning part of his brain, fireworks are going off, because he’s been wanting to do this for _years_. And, a much bigger, bitterer part of him thinks, if only it had happened half an hour ago, maybe their first kiss wouldn’t have had to be their last.

But kissing Jughead goodbye isn’t what Betty is doing at all. Instead, she breathes hard into his mouth, blowing sweet, sweet life down his throat to buy him a few more seconds before disappearing down towards his feet. He feels her pulling at his leg until it comes loose, and then she hooks her arm under his armpits and swims them up to the surface.

Between the two of them, Betty was always the better swimmer. Jughead knows this, but even in his half-conscious, half-drowned state he’s in disbelief as she guides them towards land. He can feel the water rushing around his ears, as though he’s propelled forwards by a boat engine rather than Betty Cooper’s legs. She hauls him onto the pebbly shore, his legs still in the shallows, and turns him on his side. Then she punches his back - hard - three or four times until he starts coughing up water.

“Juggie you fool,” she whispers softly, just as he drifts off, exhausted.

 

* * *

 

When he comes to again, it’s completely dark. The only sound he can hear is the steady murmuring of the Sweetwater, and then the crunching of the stones underneath him as he rolls over and painstakingly sits up. It’s a clear night but the moon isn’t out, and Jughead can barely make out the treetops against the sky.

“Betty?” he groans, looking around at the shore.

“FP is on his way,” Betty calls out from somewhere. He voice sounds distant, and it's coming from the water.

“Where are you?” he says, getting to his feet unsteadily to look out across the river, hoping to catch a glimpse of her on the south bank.

“Just stay where you are, your dad’s coming.”

There’s a soft splash, and then nothing. He calls her name several times, but there’s no reply. Then he starts shivering. His clothes are still soaked, and the August night isn’t nearly as warm as he would have wished. Out of old habit, he digs around in his jeans for his phone only to find his pocket empty. He must have dropped it in the river or, with any luck, left it at home.

It takes probably another ten minutes before he can hear his dad lumbering around in the woods, swearing and snapping branches. He’s carrying a flashlight, and Jughead moves gratefully towards the fitful light.

“I’m here,” he says, waving when FP points the beam towards him.

FP mutters something and stomps up to Jughead, cuffs him lightly over the head and then pulls him into a rough hug.

“What the hell were you thinking, son?” he scolds, then shoves a dry flannel shirt against Jughead’s chest.

Jughead pulls his wet t-shirt over his head and shrugs into the shirt. “It was Betty, dad, she was–”

“I don’t want to hear it,” FP says in a gruff voice, immediately but unsurprisingly contradicting himself.

Jughead doesn’t mind walking back in silence. He has enough on his mind as it is, and some of it is a little too weird to bring up with his dad. The whole experience seems surreal now, and he’s almost willing to put it down to his brain going funny from lack of oxygen or something. _Almost_. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Betty hadn’t stayed with him. That she seemed to still be in the water when he woke up. He stops dead in his tracks.

“We should make sure Betty’s okay,” he says. “She shouldn’t be out here alone.”

But FP keeps walking. “She doesn’t need your help,” he says. “Cooper women know how to look out for themselves.”

Jughead snorts in disbelief. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _Boy_!” FP growls warningly without turning around.

So Jughead follows, head down and jaw clenched. There’s something fishy going on here, and even his dad seems to be in on it.

They eventually emerge from the woods a few minutes’ walk from the trailer.

“You should go back to your shift,” says Jughead. “I’ll be fine getting home from here.”

“You nearly _drowned_ , Jug,” says FP. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight. Besides, Pop already gave me the rest of the night off.”

 

* * *

 

Once they’re back home, it becomes increasingly clear that FP intends to make the most of his unexpected mini-weekend. By the time Jughead is showered and changed his dad is already on his second bottle of beer, feet up on the living room table, watching a game of football.

“You can have the bed tonight,” he says, barely glancing at Jughead.

From experience, that’s short for ‘I’m getting drunk, possibly along with a few so-called friends, after which I’ll pass out on the sofa,’ so Jughead doesn’t bother with a ‘thanks’ back. He does, however, spot his phone wedged between the couch cushions and retrieves it with a sigh of relief before heading into the bedroom.

He flops down on the bed and brings up his text message conversation with Betty. He can’t help but smile at the latest exchange - Betty begging for a round of Mario Kart accompanied by the Leslie Knope _please, please, please_ -GIF. Then he hesitates for a few seconds before he starts typing.

 

10.45 pm  
You still up?

 

Jughead stares at the screen until it dims and locks itself. He chews a nail briefly, then unlocks the phone again.

 

10.47 pm  
Can I call? I need to talk about what happened

 

10.47 pm  
And say thank you

 

After another few minutes with no reply, he hits the call button. It rings until the answering machine kicks in, and even though he knows the message by heart he doesn’t hang up, but savors the sound of her voice for a few short seconds.

_“Hello, you’ve reached Betty Cooper. I never check this thing, just text me instead. Okay, bye!”_

Jughead clicks the call away with a sigh. He’ll check up on her first thing tomorrow morning, he decides, then gets up to draw the curtains. The moon is up now, the thinnest sliver imaginable sitting low on the horizon. He suddenly remembers something their old middle school teacher, Ms. Harkness, told them. _When she hangs like a G, she’s going away, when she’s shaped like a comma, she’s coming to stay_. This moon is still going - just about.

What was that Betty said earlier, he thinks once he’s slipped under the covers, ready to pass out. _Once in a new moon_ …

 

* * *

 

Alice Cooper answers the door when he goes around Betty’s the next day because _of course_ she does.

“Betty’s unwell,” she says in a short voice. “She’s asleep at the moment.”

She makes to shut the door, but Jughead smoothly slides a foot forward to stop her. “What’s wrong with her?” he asks.

Alice crosses her arms and regards him critically. “Mono,” she says. “I trust that she didn’t get it from you?”

“No, ma’am,” he says, shaking his head for emphasis. “Well, tell her get better from me.”

“Of course,” she says, sounding one hundred percent insincere.

Before he leaves, Jughead throws a glance at Betty’s window. The curtains are drawn but sheer, and he thinks he can make out a shadow behind them as if someone’s standing there, looking down at him. He gives the shadow a little wave and the curtains stir in response, parting slightly to reveal Betty, waving back. Automatically, he starts walking back towards the house, but she shakes her head warningly, so instead he gets his phone out and texts her.

 

11.02 am  
Can we talk?

 

Betty turns her head down, presumably to look at her phone. She looks back at Jughead, shrugs and shakes her head again. Then she whips around, leaving the window as if someone’s entered the room. Jughead wastes no time scurrying off down the street - it seems like Betty’s in enough trouble with Alice without him adding to the equation.

He whiles the rest of the day away rewatching the first season of _True Detective,_ but in truth, he spends more time watching the notification-less screen of his phone. When it finally bleeps it makes his belly surge with nervous anticipation, but it’s only Sweet Pea.

 

5.07 pm  
Were heading 2 the quarry u coming?

 

5.07 pm  
Didn’t you hear? I nearly drowned yesterday

 

5.08 pm  
Yeah we heard so u coming or what

 

In the end he does go, if only to take his mind off things. He doesn’t swim though, and no one bothers him about it. When Toni turns up, she joins him on the ratty old couch to watch the others dive off the cliffs.

“I had a near-death experience, what’s your excuse?” Jughead asks, nodding at the water.

“Ah, you know,” says Toni airily. “That time of the month.”

Jughead feels his eyebrows fly up into his hair. “Oh,” he says. "Um..."

She gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s just my period, Jughead. It’s who I am, twenty percent of the time. Besides, I’m pretty sure Sweets still bleeds more in a month than I do.”

“I can believe that.”

Toni sighs. “At least that idiot has a choice. Me? No. Every fourth week is shark week, regular as clockwork. Follows the moon phases as well, like a goddamn Wiccan ritual or some shit.”

Jughead frowns, considering the moon for a moment. “That’s gotta suck,” he says distantly, picking up a flat stone to skip across the surface of the water. It’s a poor throw, though, and the stone sinks into the depths as inevitably as he did, not twenty-four hours ago.

When he gets back to the trailer later that evening there’s an envelope waiting for him on the counter. It’s sealed, and he can tell right away it’s Betty’s handwriting on the front. He tears it open so quickly he nearly rips the note inside.

_Meet me in Fox Forest Park, tomorrow before sundown._

_-B_

 

* * *

 

According to timeanddate dot com, the sun will set at three minutes to eight. _Before_ can mean anything though, so he gets there at seven, just in case. Fox Forest Park is large, but Jughead has an idea of where Betty had in mind when she wrote the note. Down by the stream that leads to Crystal Lake is a gazebo where they took shelter when they were caught in a sudden thunderstorm a few weeks back. Thankfully, it’s as empty now as it was then, and he sits on one of the benches to wait.

Betty comes hurrying across the lawn towards the gazebo at half past seven. Jughead gets to his feet as soon as he spots her, but she keeps her eyes on the ground until she’s only a few yards away. Then she finally glances up and gives him a strained smile.

“I can’t stay long,” she says, lingering by the steps leading up to the little pavilion.

“Right, so...” says Jughead and sits down again, but now that she’s finally here he doesn’t know where to start.

She seems to waver for a couple of seconds, and then she hurries up the steps and sits down next to him. “Are you okay?” she asks, her eyes worried.

“Thanks to you, yeah,” he says with a short laugh. “That was…” He shakes his head, not sure how to put it into words without sounding half insane. “You saved my life,” he says lamely.

“You would have done the same.”

Jughead frowns. “Except clearly I _wouldn’t_ have because I sank like a stone and you…”

“You were wearing your clothes,” says Betty quickly. “Huge mistake.”

“Where were you?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, one minute you were there on the shore, and the next you were gone. What were you doing, going swimming in the middle of the night like that? I thought you were drowning!”

Betty laughs uncertainly. “Me? Drown? You’re looking at the three time middle school champion of the swim and dive, Jug.”

“I’m not _that_ much worse than you,” he insists.

“Did you know that it’s statistically proven that young men overestimate their own abilities more than any other age group?”

“You’re avoiding the question, Betts!”

“Yeah, well,” she says, gazing out across the park. “Maybe I am.”

They sit there in silence for a while, and Jughead is trying to not count the minutes as they slip away.

“How are you anyway?” he says eventually. “You mom said you had mono.”

Betty scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Unbelievable,” she mutters. “She’s been checking my texts, that’s why I haven’t been replying to yours. But I’m fine, Jughead. Just ignore my mom, okay?”

Even though he’d been almost completely certain that Alice had made it up on the spot, it’s still strangely relieving to hear her say it.

“Just wanted to check,” he says. “You know, in case I needed to worry about that underwater mouth-to-mouth session.”

“I haven’t been kissing anyone else if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, and the glance she throws him is almost shy.

Is this a second shot at making that move? Why else would she linger on this particular point, if she didn’t mean anything by it? Jughead is suddenly sick with nerves, his palms going damp and his heart racing. Last time he hesitated, it ended badly. _So_ badly. He swallows nervously.

“Maybe?” he says.

The way it happens is so careful, so slow that he actually finds the time to stop worrying and enjoy the moment.

She leans in first, just a fraction, and he mirrors her, not daring to close the whole distance between them in case he's reading her signals wrong. But she moves closer again, and he realizes that, yes, this really is happening. Her lips part slightly, and when they meet his, the touch is unbelievably soft, and for all of three or four seconds, Jughead is in heaven.

When they draw apart, Betty's expression is unreadable, like she's wavering again, so Jughead wills himself to move his hand up to cup her face and kiss her a second time. It’s even briefer than the first, but he needs her to know that he _wants_ this, needs to try and dispel any doubts she might harbor. And maybe it’s working as intended, because Betty makes a strange little noise, reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair and crushes her lips against his to kiss him in earnest.

From then on, it’s all he can do to try and keep up as Betty presses closer, her hands slipping down around his neck, fingers dancing over his collarbone, across his back, squeezing his arm - places he never thought anyone would deem worthy of exploration. He makes an effort to reciprocate by sliding his palms down her sides, but then he’s distracted by her warm tongue on his, and his hands are soon left to rest uselessly on her hips.

“No,” says Betty suddenly, tearing herself away from him and standing up. “We can’t… _I_ can’t.”

Jughead goes cold all over and the ground seems to be moving, tilting slowly as he reels with the shock of going from mindblowing kissing to slap-in-the-face rejection in seconds.

“What?” he manages, lumbering to his feet.

Betty is pacing the floor of the gazebo, clutching at her temples.

“Trust me, Juggie, it’s not you, it's me,” she says.

“It’s not you!” he says desperately. He has no idea what she’s talking about, but he’s willing to try anything to keep this from slipping through his fingers again.

She shakes her head, wipes a stray tear from under her eye and glances down at her watch. “I have to go,” she says, and hurries down the steps.

“Why?” he says, running a few yards until he catches up with her. “At least be honest with me, Betty, because what just happened back there? You didn’t exactly seem to hate it.”

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” she says without looking at him and without slowing down.

“Wow, okay,” he says and snorts. “Full disclosure? I’ve been wanting to ruin our friendship for _years_.”

She stops so abruptly that he nearly crashes into her. “Really?” she says with a frown. “So, when exactly…”

Jughead winces uncomfortably. “I don’t know. Since seventh grade? That field trip to Sugar Hill State Forest was definitely a contributing factor.”

Betty nods slowly. “Was that when Reggie broke his leg? And you’d forgotten your sleeping bag so we…”

“...Unzipped yours and used it as blanket, yep.”

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I had no idea,” she says. She seems lost in thought for a moment and then goes on. “Remember when the Chemistry lab flooded and we had to use the Home Economics classroom for a few weeks? I was sitting right behind you, and you'd been growing your hair out over the summer, and...that was kind of it for me.”

“It?” he says stupidly.

She glances aside. “You know. When I started liking you.”

“But that's…” he thinks frantically, “...two years ago! What about Archie?”

“What about him?”

“You've _always_ had a crush on Archie,” he says.

“He was my _safe_ crush, maybe.”

“Safe?”

“You know. The popular guy you know you're never going to date, so it's a safe answer whenever someone asks. But then there's the micro-crushes, the secret crushes, the real crushes and so on.” She explains it all in an impatient voice, as though this intricate hierarchy of crushes is something everyone should be familiar with.

“So, which one was I?” he asks, secretly already hoping for ‘real’ but mentally settling for ‘micro’.

“It doesn’t matter, Jug,” says Betty. She looks at her watch and starts walking again. “Trust me, just leave it alone.”

“What happens at sundown?” he asks, taking a wild stab.

At that, Betty freezes for half a step, squares her shoulders and speeds up, face reddening. It’s clear that he hit a nerve, so Jughead jogs along to keep up with her.

“I have so many questions,” he says. “What the hell actually happened down by the river? That current was _strong,_ and you just…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely. “And then when I woke up after everything, you weren’t even there. Or, you were _there_ but. Where were you? In the water? It’s just… It’s not _normal_.”

“I know it’s not normal!” Betty snaps at him, her voice breaking.

She wipes at her nose, at her cheeks, and Jughead suddenly feels terrible about the whole thing. He reaches out for her arm, and she finally slows down, lets herself be pulled into his embrace.

“Whatever it is, it’s fine,” he murmurs into her hair. “You can tell me anything, okay?”

Betty doesn’t reply, just nods and then shakes quietly against his shoulder for a little while. When she pulls away, her eyes are red and she sniffs loudly.

“Ugh,” she says unsteadily. “I’m sorry Jughead, but I really need to go. Like, _now_. Talk tomorrow?”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” she says, then kisses him quickly on the lips before turning around and sprinting down along the stream towards Crystal Lake.

He watches her go, then gets his phone out to check the time. It’s six minutes to eight, three minutes before sunset.

 

* * *

 

Jughead is still asleep when Betty knocks on the window above the sofabed. He scrambles for his beanie and pulls it on, then tugs the curtain back and cracks the window open.

“What time is it?” he says, blinking in the sunlight.

“Ten past nine,” says Betty cheerfully. “Want to go spelunking?”

He gets ready in record time, with the result that he’s wearing whatever was closest at hand in the meagre collection of summer clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe. Namely, a washed-out tank top with a long-faded print and shorts that were oversized two years ago but now seem to indicate that he thinks his ass is worthy of a second glance. He brushes his teeth furiously, swishes a cap of FP’s mouthwash, then tugs the beanie even further down over his ears to hide the fact that his hair hasn’t been anywhere near a comb for days.

Outside the trailer Betty is leaning against her mother’s stationwagon, looking like a dream in a sundress and a polka-dot headscarf.

“Get in,” she says. “It’s a bit of a drive.”

They’re headed to Watkins Glen - that’s about as much as she’ll give him, remaining staunchly quiet and refusing to answer any questions about the night at the Sweetwater.

“Just wait until we get there,” she says.

She buys them breakfast to go from a gas station and while Jughead sips his coffee, Betty blasts Carly Rae Jepsen on the car stereo, turning the volume up until he stops groaning and starts smiling. When he closes his eyes, letting his hand surf the air outside the rolled-down window, he can almost imagine it’s not just a day excursion but a full on road trip, just the two of them and the open road.

They pull off before they reach Watkins Glen proper, turning down a narrow road that eventually leads to the a parking lot of a state park. When Betty kills the engine, the distinct sound of running water can be heard.

“Let’s go hiking,” she says.

On a fine day like this, there’s plenty of visitors to the park, but Betty takes him down the smaller paths, off the beaten track and down into a lush gorge filled with bubbling streams and gushing waterfalls. Away from the picnic tables and the viewpoints, she leads them through a narrow cave to a secluded place where the river runs slow, deep and wide. It's almost like being back in Riverdale, only where the Sweetwater is dark and devious, the water here is clear and somehow cheerful, sparkling in the sunlight.

They sit down on the rocky riverbank, and Betty absentmindedly picks up a flat stone and hurls it across the water. It skips at least eight or nine times before it plops below the surface.

“So, are we going to talk about this?” says Jughead.

Betty squirms and sighs. “Okay,” she says. “But first, any theories?”

“About you?”

“Yeah.”

Now it’s Jughead’s turn to shuffle uncomfortably. He’s given this a _lot_ of thought over the last few days. Now that he’s free to ask, though, the conclusion that seemed completely reasonable at two am last night seems utterly ridiculous in the stark light of day.

“Are you some kind of...superhero?” he says, cringing at the question even as he asks.

Betty laughs darkly. “Ha, I wish,” she says. Then she turns serious. “Do you know when my birthday is, Jug?”

“Yeah, of course. In, what, six days? On Sunday, right?”

As if he didn’t know exactly when. As if he hadn’t already gotten her a gift weeks ago; a thrift shop bracelet that he’s still unsure of. Unsure if she’ll think buying second hand is cheap, if he should even be buying her jewelry in the first place.

“Did you know I was born three weeks early?” Betty asks.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Okay, well, technically not _early_ , because it still counts as normal and not premature, but it caught my mom off guard. Anyway, it was in the middle of the night and she was on her way home from some event she'd been to up in Syracuse, and her water broke just outside of Greendale.”

“That's ominous,” says Jughead.

At best, Greendale can be described as a hippie hideout hole. At worst, it's New York's own Roswell, and definitely not the kind of place you want to find yourself in at midnight with a baby suddenly on the way.

“Isn't it though?” Betty sighs. “So mom pulls over at the nearest creepy old house and I guess wobbles in to borrow the phone, but the woman who lives there turns out to be one of those people who believes in electromagnetic hypersensitivity, so she doesn't even have electric lights in the house, let alone a telephone.”

“Sounds reassuring,” says Jughead.

“Mm-hm. Luckily, or whatever you want to call it, this woman is some kind of earth mother, so she's like ‘I have a bed, I don't mind if you bleed all over it’ and basically mom can feel that I'm on my way _very_ soon, so she takes her up on the offer.”

Jughead shakes his head in disbelief. “How is this the first time I'm hearing about this?”

“It gets worse,” says Betty. “The delivery was ultra fast, but when I came out I wasn't breathing properly. Somehow the water hadn't been pressed out of my lungs like it should have, and even though I was huffing and puffing as hard as I could, I was slowly drowning on dry land. Then this woman tells my mom that she can save my life, but that it'll come at a price.”

In spite of the midday sun glaring down at them, Jughead can feel the hair on his arm stand on end with chills.

“What kind of price?”

Betty picks another stone up, weighing it in her hand. “The kind you don’t want to pay,” she says, hurling the stone at the water. It sinks with a single, loud splash.

“I was born under a black moon,” she goes on. She doesn’t wait for him to ask what that means, but instead launches straight into explaining. “Yeah, so, a black moon is the third new moon in a season with four new moons. So there's like an extra new moon. It happens every thirty-three months, and it’s a good time to….” she hesitates, takes a deep breath and then blurts it out, “...practice magic.”

Jughead tries very hard to not make any kind of face. He’s told himself that no matter what, he wouldn’t laugh at her, wouldn’t dismiss her, however crazy the explanation. Instead, he nods slowly. After all, it’s no crazier than his half-baked superhero theory.

“So this woman. This _witch_ ,” Betty says firmly, “made some kind of deal with the elements, or the moon, or whatever, to save my life. I’m unclear on the details. Mom told me all of this once, but she won’t talk about it anymore, so I’m relying on memory and my own research to try to find a way to break the curse... So. Yeah.”

She falls silent, leaving Jughead’s mind spinning with new questions.

“Curse, what curse?” he asks.

“Do you believe me, Jughead?” she asks him back.

“Believe what?”

“All of this. _Any_ of it. When I’m telling you there’s nights that are extra magic, that there’s witches in Greendale, do you believe me?”

“Miss Grundy ended up in Greendale, so sure, why not?” he jokes.

“I’m serious, Jug,” Betty says. “Because if you’re sitting here thinking ‘wow, she’s a few fries short of a Happy meal’ then we might as well call it a day.”

It’s a lot to ask of a full-blooded skeptic, he feels. To turn on a dime and accept that there’s things in the world that don’t follow the laws of nature. Then again, there was something decidedly unnatural at play that night at the Sweetwater. He sneaks his hand into hers and gives it a squeeze.

“You know I’m always going to be more Scully than Mulder, but trust me, I want to believe,” he says.

She nods, a steely look of determination in her eyes. “Okay, then let’s do this,” she says. “At least you’ve already seen it, even if you weren’t all there. But you have to _swear_ you won’t tell anyone. Not that they’d ever believe you, but you still have to swear.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says, still not sure what he’s agreeing to.

She wiggles her hand free, stands up and grabs the hem of her dress. “Turn around,” she says. “And _no_ peeking.”

Jughead obliges her, swiveling on the pebbles to face the rocky wall of the gorge. He tries his best to keep his cool, but in spite of the whole situation he can’t help but fixate on the fact that she’s probably right in the middle of undressing two feet behind him.

“So the way the curse works is that three nights every month, when the moon is at its darkest, I _have_ to change,” she says. “The rest of the time, I just choose not to.”

“Change how?”

She doesn’t reply, but he can hear her walking into the river followed by the soft _swoosh_ of swimming.

“Okay, your turn,” she calls.

Jughead turns around. His eyes fall briefly on the pile of clothes on the shore, not failing to notice her underwear folded neatly on top of the dress. Betty is far out in the river, treading water.

“Come on in,” she says.

“I didn’t bring my swimming trunks,” he says, eyeing the water cautiously.

“You think I’m wearing a bikini right now?”

Even though Betty promises to return the favor and not look, Jughead can’t bring himself to stripping completely, instead choosing to sacrifice his boxers when he wades into the cool stream. He doesn’t exactly feel comfortable, swimming the few strokes out to join her, but there’s no undercurrent here, no danger of being pulled down. The slow-moving water makes everything under the surface blurry and distorted, but he still keeps his eyes firmly on her face when he comes closer.

“Dive with me,” she says, reaching out to grab his hands.

They take a deep breath together and sink below. Jughead feels Betty let go of him so he opens his eyes, and what he sees makes him release the air in his lungs in an explosive breath of shock. He struggles to the surface, arms flailing and legs kicking wildly, swearing and gasping for air. After a few seconds of panicked breathing and dog paddling, he’s calm enough to dare to look down, but by then she’s gone.

“What a freak, right?” Betty calls out from somewhere.

He turns towards the sound of her voice and spots her further down the river, swimming towards him with angry strokes. She looks completely normal now, and not at all like…

“You’re a _mermaid_?” he says, bewildered.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she says, bobbing restlessly a few yards away.

“No,” says Jughead hurriedly. “No, I just wasn’t prepared, that’s all.”

“I’m certainly no Ariel,” says Betty bitterly.

“Can you change, just like that?” he asks and snaps his fingers.

“Yeah, but you saw me. Why would I want to?”

“Do it again,” he begs her.

She cocks her head and regards him defiantly. Then her face shimmers, and in the blink of an eye her skin is covered with glittering, green scales, from the roots of her hair to her shoulders. Around her neck are strange, spiky fins, and Jughead gets the feeling they’re protecting her gills. _Her gills_. It’s all too strange to take in, he thinks numbly. Slowly, Betty raises her hand above the surface of the water and spreads her fingers. They’re just as green as the rest of her, and webbed, like frog feet.

“And of course, _la piece de resistance_ ,” she says and lies back in the water, raising her tail up so he can see it.

 _Her tail._ _Her_ tail. Her _tail_. Finally, Jughead’s brain decides that it’s had enough for one day and starts checking out; his field of vision narrows, and his legs are no longer interested in treading water.

“Goddamn it, not again,” he can hear Betty say, and then he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

It takes half the drive back to Riverdale before she even speaks to him. After that, it’s two days before she’s ready to talk about _that_ , and another two before he can convince her to show him again. They go when it’s dark, and he has to promise not to pass out this time.

It isn’t until her birthday that he finally gets to kiss her again, when they’re sitting in her yard swing in the hot August night, watching lazy fireflies flicker and glow. The air is filled with the sound of crickets chirping, and Betty’s bracelet chinks when she reaches up to thread her fingers through his hair as she captures his mouth with hers.

“I’m not sure I should be with anyone, Jug,” she whispers afterwards, her lips lingering, almost touching his.

“Why shouldn’t you?”

Her eyes are large and serious when she looks up at him, and her brows draw together in concern. “I don’t even know what I am. If I’m even _human_.”

“Of course you are,” he says, wrapping his arm around her to pull her closer. “Most of the time.”

“I’m serious!” she says, slapping his leg. “Just think about it. What about family? Like...will I ever even be able to have kids?”

“We’re _seventeen_ , Betts.”

“I didn’t mean–”

“You didn’t mean with me? Oh, okay then.” He tries his best to feign a hurt look.

“Oh my god, Jughead,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Look, by then we will _definitely_ have found this Wicked Witch of the West and gotten some answers, okay? Speaking of which, Mayor McCoy promised me she’d try to get a hold of someone over at the Greendale town hall after the weekend. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Betty squeezes his arm lightly. “Thank you.”

“Curses are meant to be broken, right?”

“Right. Or lifted, or whatever.”

“Lifted, then.” He glances at her and clears his throat. “Unless you don’t want to, because personally I think it’s a pretty cool curse and I absolutely don’t mind dating a fish-freak, so…”

Betty groans and slaps his leg again, but she also can’t seem to help but smile, and when she presses closer still, Jughead’s heart does a little flip.

“Is that what we’re doing then?” she says. “Dating?”

“If you want,” he says quietly.

“It’s a start,” she says, turning her face up to kiss him again.

 


End file.
